University of Virginia Library

3. CHAPTER III.

The day was consumed before Don Balthazar de Alvaro was
released from his duties near the person of the adelantado. It
had been, with the former, a day of protracted toil, not without
certain accompanying tortures. The tortures, however, did not
exactly follow from the toil. On the contrary, he could have
pursued the former, not only without the slightest feelings of annoyance
or inconvenience, but with an elasticity and sense of
satisfaction, the natural consequence of his deep sympathy in the
objects of the expedition. His tortures belonged entirely to a
subject, the annoyances of which, to him, were not by any means
suspected by De Soto or his noble lady. Little did they fancy
the deep and peculiar disquiet which Don Balthazar suffered from
any allusion to the probability of his niece's marriage. Had the
lover been any other than the knight of Portugal—had he been
the most unexceptionable person in the world—the case would
not have been altered. He would still have found a stern hostility
in the uncle of the lady, for which no reasons of ordinary policy
could possibly account.

But Don Balthazar had the strength of will to conceal from
his superior, as from all others, the degree of concern which he
felt in relation to this subject. His experienced and indurated
nature knew well how to clothe itself, externally, in the garments
of a rugged indifference, or of a pulseless apathy. But
he suffered not the less in secret; and, with the release from the
restraints of that companionship throughout the day, which had
fettered his secret feelings, they broke out in expressions of corresponding

force with the pressure that had been laid upon them.
Let us follow him as, after a long conference with the adelantado,
he took his way, at the approach of evening, toward the inviting
solitude of his own habitation.

This was situated in one of the loneliest, as well as the loveliest,
of the suburbs of the infant city. The retreat was one in
which love and ambition might equally delight to meditate; the
one on human sympathies, which are always sweetly associated
with the beauty and innocence of nature—the other upon proud
hope and prospects in the future, which present possessions
princely and beautiful, might naturally suggest to the fierce will
and the grasping, eager temperament. The site of the habitation
of Don Balthazar was happily found upon a gentle eminence,
which afforded equal glimpses of the city and the sea. Its horizon
was only circumscribed by its trees,—fruitage and flowers in
an excess of which the best taste, in a warm climate, would find
it difficult to complain. The air that breathed balm ever through
its atmosphere—the breeze swelling at frequent periods from its
tributary seas—the chirp of innocent insects, and the song of
uncaged, but never wandering birds—were all suggestive of that
condition of the dolce far niente of the fatal tyranny of which the
sage and moralist dilate in warning exhortation ever, yet to
which they are always most ready to submit with pleasure, and
to remember with regret and yearning. Fruits of every luscious
variety, flowers of the most golden and glorious hues and perfumes,
vines and leaves of all most grateful descriptions, harmonized
with this happy empire, where the passions, whether drooping
or triumphant, might here find themselves at home. The
shadiest palms, and other trees of equal verdure and fragrance,
compensated for the absence of grandeur and sublimity, which,
indeed, must have been inconsistent with the peculiar moral of
such an abode. The attractions of this sweet seclusion were not
wholly confined to the gifts and attributes of nature. The hand
of art had been made tributary, in high degree, to her virgin
wants. The sire of the Lady Olivia, who had left it for his child,
in the keeping of his brother, had made it after the fashion of his

own nature, which was meek in its desires, and a worshipper of
the graceful, the peaceful and the beautiful. The luxuries of such
an abode were doubly refined and spiritualized to the soul of
taste, by the sweet repose, the delicious security which hung, as
with a veil, over the partial solitude. At a little distance lay the
white dwellings of the infant city, the voices of its daily toil and
struggle rising only as a faint and pleasant murmur, most like
the sweet chiding of distant billows on a rocky shore. The sea, at a
like distance, had also a pleasant music for the dwelles in this
forest home, where, through long and complicated avenues of
greenest foliage, the fond and contemplative spirit might make its
way, with just enough of the consciousness of life for pleasure,
and not enough of its toils and apprehensions for anxiety or
care.

Here, then, with few attendants, and but one companion, the
subtle, the mercenary, and sleepless politician, Balthazar de Alvaro,
made his abode. Hither he took his way, with slower foot-step
than was his wont, after separating from the adelantado.
He had run a sort of gauntlet of inquiry, as he emerged from the
presence of De Soto, and made his way through the city, by
which his mood had undergone no peculiar sweetening. But it
was admirable to witness the strength of a much exercised and
well-trained will, in subduing the outbreaks of a temper which
had suffered a series of most painful provocations throughout the
day. He could smile graciously as he replied deferentially to his
equal; nor was he wanting in a certain kind of smile, when he
answered the inquiries of his inferior. The necessities and objects
of De Soto required much exercise of the arts of conciliation
on the part of his associates; nor was Don Balthazar wanting
in that policy which teaches that none are too humble to be
incapable of harm in season—none too worthless for use in certain
periods. He traversed the interval between the dwelling of
the adelantado and his own, vexed at every step in his progress,
yet without betraying his vexation to the most worthless
spectator.

It was only when he reached the secure shelter of his own

grounds that he gave freedom to his real emotions. Throwing
himself upon the earth, at the foot of a noble palm, which was
encircled by a dense thicket o tributary vines and shrubs, he
yielded to speech a portion of the troubles which had weighed
hitherto in silence upon his mind.

“Now, out upon this fortune, that seems ever bent to break
me on the rack of fear. You put your foot upon one danger,
and another springs up from its seed. A thousand times have I
flattered myself that all was safe—all sure; but even in the full
feeling of exultation the doubt, the dread, has thrust its hideous
face before my own, grinning and gibing at me, with the perpetual
threat of overthrow and exposure. These knights of
Portugal are the black dogs that hunt upon my heels. Would I
could brain or bane them both! Are they, as De Soto and his
lady think?—is he, rather, this Philip de Vasconselos, a person
to be feared? Has he, indeed, won his way to that heart?—but
no! Olivia de Alvaro cannot soon forget—cannot hide from
sight—from fear, if no other more grateful feeling, those memories—that
consciousness—which utterly forbid that she should
become the wife of this or of any man—unless, indeed, in the
utter depravation of nature, and the utter scorn and abandonment
of the world. And where would such a condition, for her, find
the faith and homage of this Philip de Vasconselos? Yet, let me
not deceive myself. She is no longer what she was. She
dreams—she dotes—she weeps—she has no voice for song,—she
who sung ever, and scarce had any other passion,—and she
broods, to utter forgetfulnes of the things around her—she, who
could sing, or sin, before, without any thoughts of this or any
other world. It may be as they think. What then? Shall she
have way? Shall this knight of Portugal have way? Shall
she wed with him, or with any, to my ruin and disgrace? No!
no! It is but to ask the question to find the answer. It is
here—it is here—either in my dagger, or in that of one as ready
as mine own!”

Such was the soliloquy. He clutched the handle of his weapon
as he spoke, and half drew it from the sheath. But he

thrust it back a moment after, drew his cap above his eyes, and
stretched himself along upon the sward, with his face downward.
Here he lay in complete silence, and scarcely stirring, the full
space of half an hour. Meanwhile, the day waned. The sun
was at his setting, and the night birds began wheeling, with faint
shrieks, about the place where he seemed to slumber. But
slumber was not upon his eyelids, or in his thoughts. It was not
his necessity just then. He rose, at length, with the deliberation
of one who has recovered the full sway over all his moods, and,
adjusting his garments, prepared to move towards his dwelling,
which was still at some distance, and hidden wholly from his
eyes by the sinuosity of the avenues, and the denseness of the
thicket. But he paused more than once on his progress, and,
more than once, did words of brief soliloquy break from his
lips.

“At least, I must soon know all. There must be an explanation.
I must fathom her secret. I must probe her heart to its
core. If that be safe—if she be what she hath been sufficiently
trained to be—what such training indeed should have made her,—”
and a grim smile passed over his features as he spoke,—“then
this Philip de Vasconselos can do no hurt. Let him live. He
will scarcely linger here. But if there be sentiment in her
bosom, newly born and from his agency, such as I would have
trampled out, if need be, in blood and fire,—a sentiment hostile
to my hold upon her—then must I strike,—strike fatally,—and
crush the danger in its very bud. But, I must penetrate her
secret. She hath grown subtle of late,—that is an evil sign.
It is enough that she hath a secret, and from me. That alone is
significant of danger! Doth her reserve signify distrust of
me? Ha! what else? Do her tears manifest a feeling for
another? Then is it a proof that she holds me in hate and
loathing. I must search, fathom this mystery, and be as swift
and stern as I am vigilant!”

This speech was not spoken all at once, but in snatches, during
his walk, and each soliloquy compelling his momentary pause.
In this manner he went forward, his features and manner becoming

more and more composed as he approached the dwelling.
At length the cottage and its gay verandahs opened before him.
and he paused as he caught a glimpse of his niece, where she lay
dreamily reclining, embowered in the grateful shades of the tall
trees by which the dwelling was surrounded.

Olivia de Alvaro, as we now behold her, her form disposed
at ease, stretched on ample cushions, in the airy recesses of the
verandah, would seem, from the half-shut eye, and the almost
motionless attitude in which she lay, to have been wrapt in the
most grateful slumbers. She was evidently unconscious of the
rays of the fast disappearing sunlight, which shot, faint and brokenly,
through the intervening foliage. She was a pale, proud
beauty, one whose high and aristocratic features seemed scarcely
consistent with that despondency of mood and dependency of nature,
which have been described as her present characteristics.
Her features were not regular, but there was a strange harmony
between them nevertheless; the lofty brow, corresponding well
with the distinctly rounded chin,—the large and well-formed
nose, and that `drooping darkness of the Moorish eye,' which, as
we know,—though it may slumber long in cloud and shadow,—
is still capable of such sudden lightnings as consume at the single
flash. We have already described her as very young—scarcely
more than seventeen;—but this youthfulness was not marked by
the usual frankness—the uncircumspect and exuberant flow, of
that period. Her countenance was marked by an earnestness,
an intensity of gaze and expression, which denoted a maturity of
thought and feeling quite beyond her years. It is surprising how
rapidly one lives, who has learned to feel, and been made to suffer.
Yet what had been the sources of suffering in her? Rich,
beautiful, well-beloved, what were the cares of Olivia de Alvaro,
by which she had grown so singularly mature? This we must
ascertain in future pages. Enough, if now we continue the description
of her person.

She was tall, and of commanding figure and demeanor. Her
features, significant of so much sweetness and beauty, were yet
marked by a tremulous and timid sadness of gaze, which conveyed

the impression of a sense of awe, compelling her fears, and
depressing her elasticity. This expression, particularly at those
moments when she seemed to become forgetful of every other
presence, commended her to sympathy, rather than offended
pride. There could be no jealousy of her superiority, in the evident
feeling of apprehension which she displayed. A vague
sense of danger seemed to accompany the consciousness of her
charms; and the effect was rather to humble and subdue all the
loftier indications that were yet inseparable from the graces
of her manner, and the conscious nobility of blood and beauty.

To these she was by no means insensible. Her carriage was
such as showed an habitual appreciation of all her possessions;
yet so modified as to make nature more conspicuous than habit
in her demeanor. The heart of a young damsel naturally, and
very soon, becomes sensible of the beauties of her person. Her
mirror, and the common language of society, read equally in
speech and manner, soon teach her all the value of her charms.
But a refined taste renders it impossible, if she really should be
attractive, that she should escape this conviction. It is her merit
when she does not presume upon her possessions, and is modestly
content in their enjoyment. It is in due degree with the development
of her intellect, and the experience of afflictions, that she
schools her vanity. That Olivia de Alvaro had, in large measure,
learned to tutor hers, might be gathered from many indications.
That she was not insensible to her own charms, was equally evident
from the exercises in which she employed them. Few damsels
knew so well how to train the glance, to give variety and
play to the expressive muscles, and the pleasing, persuasive
action; to subdue to sweetness, and the most touching tenderness
of tone, the murmurs of the obedient voice; to make the
fingers speak, as with an endowment of their own, and to inform,
with a nameless, but most winning flexibility, every movement
of the well-regulated and exquisitely symmetrical figure. Half
sitting, half reclining, in the western verandah of the dwelling,
her eyes vaguely pursuing the soft and fluctuating play of the evening
sunlight, that stole in golden droplets, as it were, through

the slightly waving leaves of the anana and the orange, she yet
appeared wholly regardless of the timid brightness that sprinkled,
as with fairy eyes, the apartment all about her feet. She seemed
to muse in far delicious fancies, that made her wholly unconscious
of the actual world in which she lived. Her person, unrestrained
by any human presence, had naturally subsided into an
attitude equally graceful and voluptuous; and this was altogether
the unstudied action of a grace, which, natural always, had yet
always recognized in art only the appointed assistant, the tiring
woman and handmaid, of the imperial nature. Her dark, glossy
hair, hung upon her shoulders, from which it descended in waving
but massive tresses. The art which had, without an effort, disposed
their flowing and magnificent folds, had never been more
successful in removing all proof of its own adorning fingers.
Slightly stirred by the fitful zephyrs of an afternoon in May, that
season which, in Cuba, recognizes the perfect presence of the full-bosomed
summer, her ringlets played upon her neck like young
birds, for the first time conscious of their wings, yet still fluttering,
timidly and fondly, about the parent nest. And thus she
reclined, clad in robes of white, slightly trimmed with blue and
orange, seemingly unconscious of all things but those which were
deeply hidden in her thoughts, at the moment when Don Balthazar
drew nigh to the dwelling.

The shrubbery had enabled him to approach unseen, until
within a few steps of the verandah. He could detect the familiar
outline of her person through the leaves of a gorgeous orange,
beneath which he stood silently beholding her. She dreamed not
of his presence. His footstep had been carefully set down, as if
not to disturb her; and thus unsuspected, he stood, for a few moments,
watching her with a singular and intense interest. Even
thus keen and concentrative the gaze which the fascinating serpent
fastens upon the unconscious bird that flies or flutters in his sight.
It was not malignity or hostility that was apparent in the expression
of his eyes. Nay, to the casual spectator, there might have
seemed fondness only, in the keen and earnest interest, which
seemed to study her every feature, as if prompted by the most

paternal affection. And yet there was a something bitter in the
smile which occasionally played upon his lips; and the slight
frown which darkened in his glance was significant of a disquiet
or disappointment, the sources of which we may not yet comprehend.
Suspicion, too, might be seen to lurk even beneath the
smile of the observer, and his secret watch might have been dictated
by a policy which was not above the indulgence of a
baseness.

And yet his purpose did not seem to be espionage. A sudden
and troublesome thought—perhaps a suddenly suggested curiosity—appeared
to arrest his footsteps on his approach. Her appearance,
her attitude, seemed to invite his study. It was to
muse, to meditate, or, perhaps, to prepare his mind for some
exigent duty, that he paused, without seeking to disturb the damsel
in her vacant mood. She, too, had her causes for meditation;
though one might readily ascribe the dreamy languor of her attitude
to the bland and seductive influences of the climate. To the
voluptuous idler, already familiar with that luxury of situation
which suspends the thought, and strips the fancy of everything
but wings, her appearance would seem natural enough, and her
conjectured reveries would only be the most grateful, yet unimpressive
in the world. It would be only to liken her bower to
the wizard domain of that archimage who wove his perpetual
snares in the Castle of Indolence, making all things dreamy and
delusive in the half-shut eye. But the meditations of Olivia de
Alvaro were of a sort, perhaps, even more deeply troublesome
than those of her uncle. Big tears might be seen to gather in
her eye—slowly, it is true, and few,—but they were such as we
seldom look to see in the eyes of young and innocent loveliness.
The great drops silently oozing from beneath their dark and
drooping fringes, like some gradual stream gliding silently forth
from the shade of overhanging alders, were not unseen by her
uncle. His features became graver as he beheld them, and he
looked aside—he looked down—as if anxious to shut them from
his sight. He turned away hastily a moment after, and, with
careful footstep, retreated silently from his place of watch. Taking

a hasty turn through the deeper ranks of foliage, he again,
after a little interval, was returning in the direction of the dwelling,
when his ear was aroused by the sound of approaching
voices. He promptly shrouded himself in a little copse of grenadilla.
Here he could easily distinguish the persons of the visitors,
himself unseen. In a few moments they had reached the spot
where he stood concealed. They proved to be the young gallant,
Nuno de Tobar, and his frail but beautiful betrothed, in whose
behalf we have seen how greatly the anger of De Soto had been
awakened. She was a pretty creature, light-hearted rather than
wanton, whose happiness was now wholly complete, and whose
faults were all about to be repaired. They walked unconsciously
beside the stern Balthazar, and their prattle once more wrought
his features into that sardonic expression so natural to a man
who despises the simplicity of young affections. They were on
a visit to the lovely Olivia, to whom, we may say in this place,
the betrothal of the happy couple brought at once a pang and a
pleasure. We must leave the explanation of this contradiction
to other chapters.

It was with something of chagrin and disquiet that Don Balthazar
discovered who were the approaching parties. He had
almost spoken his annoyances aloud, as they passed onward to
the cottage. His vexation was not long suppressed. As soon as
they had passed into the verandah, he retired from his place of
watch, to a spot of greater seclusion in the groves, and the passionate
soliloquy to which he gave utterance afforded some slight
clue to the nature of his secret meditations.

“Now,” said he, flinging himself down upon the sward, a thick
matting of grass, like that of the Bermuda, which completely
protects the garments from the red stains of the earth. “Now
will these fools, with happiness fancied in their grasp, possess her
spirit with all the passions which they feel themselves. If her
mind were yet free from any fancy in behalf of this knight of
Portugal, they would do much towards its graffing. They will
speak in raptures of hopes which they dream to be possessions,
of realities which seldom live through a season, and of sentiments

which few, however cheated at first, but live to curse and to despise
in after times. This Nuno de Tobar is the sworn friend of
Vasconselos. He will labor in his cause. He perhaps knows all
his secrets. Perhaps he comes even now as an emissary. Demonios!
But does it need this? Let me not deceive myself,
though I would shut the truth from other eyes. Can I doubt
that Olivia de Alvaro looks with favor on this knight? That she
loves him—she, the — but hush! The thing is by no means
an absurdity. The insane passion does not stop to measure its
own claims. The cloud that receives and swallows up the star,
has no shame for such affrontery; and even guilt may worship with
hope at the altars of the pure and beautiful. I cannot doubt that
she loves him. Else why this change since he came upon the
island? Why these tears—this despondency—this drooping fear,
—this trembling and perpetual cloud and apprehension? She
shrinks from other eyes—from mine. Her own are cast upon
the earth, or closed from study. Could other eyes but read, like
mine, she would have no secret to reveal! It is well that she
dare not speak. The very passion that she feels for this stranger
is my security. She must subdue these inclinations. She must stifle
this working fancy which these meddling fools will blow into a flame.
She shall stifle it! Fortunately, I am her will. I have ever led her
as a child. She has known no impulses of her own, save those of
infancy, until now; and she will scarcely now withstand that governing
rule which hath hitherto swayed her as the breezes sway the
leaf. I would, now, that this had not been the case. I have perilled
upon a moment the security of a life; but regret is unavailing
now. I must continue as I have begun. I must still assert the
superior will of a master,—not simply to secure my slave, but to
assure myself of safety. It will be easy, and why should I scruple
to do it? Why this fear, this feebleness? I will overcome
it as before! She shall bend, she shall bow, or break in the
conflict! But there will be no conflict. She will offer no opposition—none
that I cannot soon disarm. Had it been her fierce
Biscayan mother, I should have no such victory. She would
have defied me in her paroxysm, and in the very passion of her
rage, she would have left no secret unrevealed, even though instant
ruin followed on her speech. Fortunately, the child sucked
nothing from the mother. She hath no such temper. She has
the gentleness of poor Alphonso, all his meek submission, his
dread of strife, his shrinking dislike of struggle and excitement.
Had he not been so weak as to submit to her tyranny, he had
never suffered wrong from me. Olivia hath his feebleness of
will; but she hath warmer sensibilities. Still, they make nothing
against my power,—I have schooled them to submission and
self-denial. What if I have done her wrong—and she dreams
not yet of its extent—yet, even if she knew all, no desperation
of desire, or fear, could drive her to resistance. Here, I am secure!
Unlike her fiery dam, she is too heedful of the world's
voice to lift her own, where the very cry which would crush my
fortunes, would leave hers wrecked on the same shoals. On
this, I hold! Here, I am safe. I must still sway—still maintain
the mastery—but I foresee the struggle. I see it in those tears,
—in that deep despondency,—in the distaste which no longer
suffers her eyes to meet the gaze of mine,—in the cold and chilling
word which checks my speech,—and the reserve, almost like
aversion, with which she encounters my approach. I must prepare
for the struggle;—but shall we not escape it all if we once
get these knights of Portugal embarked? But how, if they
resolve to stay? That is a grief that must find its own
remedies!”

We care not now to pursue our subtle politician in his walks
or his soliloquies. Enough has been shown to develop the sort
of temper with which he views the supposed conquests of his
lovely niece, over the affections of two of the noblest adventurers
in the train of De Soto. These had not been her only conquests.
But none of her previous suitors had ever given her
uncle any cause for apprehension. It has been shown that he is
not simply averse to her marriage with either of the knights of
Portugal, but is alike hostile to the claims of all. As the guardian
of his niece, with small estates of his own, and ample possessions
of hers, to manage, his disquiet on this subject may well

be supposed to arise from motives of most singular selfishness
or baseness. But Olivia herself, aware of his aversion to her
marriage, has really no notion that avarice is the infirmity of her
uncle. She knows but little of his individual resources, but much
of himself. She has seen nothing in his expenditure, or conduct,
which would make him appear in her eyes to be a mercenary.
Her minority had been singularly managed, so as to keep her in
a state of mental vassalage, quite uncommon on the island.
She had been kept in almost complete seclusion until the appearance
of De Soto and his lady, when it was impossible to withhold
her from the court; her own wealth, her father's name, and
the position of her uncle, equally requiring it. Up to this period
she little dreamed of the treasures which the world had in
its keeping. She little knew the value of her own. But in the
course of a single night the germ of passion had blossomed, and
Love rapidly maturing beneath its fervid warmth, had taught
her a grief in teaching her a faith. Alas! she knew not till now
how precious, how radiant white, must be the first offerings demanded
for its shrine. Leaving the uncle to pursue his moody
walk through the umbrageous grounds of his domain, let us return
to the niece, and witness the reception of her guests.